


and then we almost feel young again

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, wrestling somewhat included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rog and Turgon don't fight, officially. (They don't fuck, officially, either). In private it's a different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then we almost feel young again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



> Prompt was for wrestling and explicitness, and I hope this fills both counts.

Most people saw the two of them in their stillness.

Rog worked in his forge, sure enough, but even there his motions were calm and calculated, his face nearly as composed as when he stood in court. And Turgon, to all but those who knew him best, was often nothing more than a seated, magnificent figure on the throne, a calm voice in court; a barely moving shadow in the tower where he spoke to eagles and doves and the other birds that flocked, white and dun brown and glossy black, to the thousand perches carved on the outer walls. Mighty in battle—that was said of both of them, and Glorfindel, who practiced swordplay with Turgon in private, could vouch for at least part of that reputation. And nobody looking at Rog’s broad shoulders, his scars and the practiced wariness of his eyes could doubt that he could fight, if need be. Still, they never joined in the shows that most of Gondolin’s lords put on; the sparring, the jousts, the occasional wrestling.

Turgon felt, personally, that he needed to refrain. As much as some of the populace might enjoy seeing their King throw a lord to the ground, and many would not respect him less for it, he guarded his image carefully and knew that allowing himself that would crack it. Might shatter it, over time. And from a young age he had begun to learn that to be a still figure on the throne, a quiet voice, a force as implacable as a statue, was a great power indeed.

That was not to say it did not chafe. Sometimes he missed his younger days so fiercely it ached; missed sparring with Fingon, playfully wrestling with Finrod when they went out on explorations together, not judging the reaction he provoked in every eye that landed on him quite so keenly. What do they see and can they be trusted were questions that came far too easily to mind now; and his only relief was that there were some with whom the answer was still _a lord that can still be a man_ and _with my life, if need be._

When he had first met Rog, he had known he would be one of those men. Maybe that was foolishness; Rog’s history was dark, as anyone’s would when touched by captivity in Angband, and Turgon knew that, rationally, there was a risk. Many had been deceived, in the past, by captives seemingly released, seeded with evil biddings deep in their minds. Rationally, he should not have trusted Rog when they first met, when Rog’s fate was to be decided, when he faced the prospect of taking such potential darkness into Gondolin. But sometimes things were not rational; sometimes the soul was stirred by something greater, as his mind had been when he had been called upon to create Gondolin, deep within the mountains. There was something of that feeling, quiet recognition and knowledge without knowing the source of it, when he stood before Rog, taking in his scars first, and then looked into his eyes. Rog had looked back, his calm expression almost mirroring Turgon’s, and Turgon felt no fear—only curiosity about what Rog saw when he looked at him. For all he trusted him, instinctively, the man was hard to read at first.

By now he has learned to read him, the flickers of emotion behind his calm and the meanings behind his brief words. When Turgon pauses at his side as the court disperses after a joust, some going into the streets and some back to their homes for rest, and says, “Might I expect your presence in half an hour?” he catches the slight tightening of Rog’s jaw and the almost-smile that curves his mouth as he replies, “Of course,” and knows that he’s just as frustrated as Turgon is.

Turgon has never bothered to ask why Rog chooses not to fight; first, because he believes that Rog would tell him if he wanted his reasons known, and secondly because he can guess. There are still some who look at his broad shoulders and scarred arms with nervousness; some that would find it hard to watch him fight, be reminded by every scar on his torso where he had been and what a danger he might still be. And perhaps part of Rog fears fighting in the open as well, or feels distaste for it—Turgon guessed he might, but in the end it did not matter. All that mattered was that they had a mutual wish and enough trust to fulfill it for each other; that the next hour or two was free and the cool, high-ceilinged room they met in at the end of a little-used hallway was private and had a few mats on the floor, and a mattress. Just in case.

Turgon has already stripped to the waist before Rog enters, and is stretching in one of the thin beams of sunlight spilling down from a high window. It feels good to work the kinks that have built up in his spine out, better yet to feel Rog’s eyes on his back and anticipate what’s to come. He turns to greet Rog with a half-smile, more playful than he’d usually display.

“Shall we?”

They don’t often bother with oiling themselves, like the contenders out in the field; it’s not a formal match, and it’s usually over quickly. Three throws to win. After Rog’s answering nod Turgon moves immediately, hoping to win the first with the element of surprise, but Rog catches his arm before he can make a hold. They stand eye-to-eye and Rog smiles.

“You were always more of a dirty fighter than I expected,” he said.

Turgon grins. “I’ve learned to press an advantage when I can. Ruling does that to you. But I wouldn’t call that dirty fighting.” He twists his arm out of Rog’s grasp and steps back. “I’ll even let you have the first move, now.”

Rog mutters “Now that you’re ready for it; how generous,” but his eyes are already searching for the best move. He doesn’t take too long about it. Turgon might have some height on him but Rog’s far heavier, and Turgon nearly falls when Rog slams into him, only regaining his footing at the last minute.

It’s not really about winning. They keep their few rules because they add fun to their encounters, an element of challenge. It’s about Rog’s arms wrapping around him in a vicious bear hug, and fighting back against that pressure with all his strength. Feeling flesh under his fist when he strikes, instead of the dull cloth of a dummy. The brilliant rush of adrenaline that comes with combat—the laughter that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him—the way that fighting, wrestling, brought into play every part of him that he kept silent at other times. Turgon gasped for breath after breaking Rog’s hold, only to lose it again when Rog sweeps his legs out from under him and brings him to the floor. Rog’s sinewed arm presses hard against Turgon’s chest, keeping him there, and something like laughter glitters in his dark eyes.

“First,” he says, his breath warm on Turgon’s cheek. Turgon fights back the flutter of arousal that goes through him; there would be time for that later, but now he should keep his head.

He takes the second throw, with effort, and gives a whoop of delight that would turn many of the heads in Gondolin in shock. “You fall like a tree!” he says, crouching down over Rog and offering him his hand.

“And you taunt like a boy.” Rog grabs his wrist and pulls him down on top of him. “Sometimes you seem younger than your daughter.”

Turgon pushes himself up on his free elbow. The giddy rush of movement was still in him, making his voice tremble with laughter. “Sometimes I feel young again, in here. It is a great thing.”

Rog looks at him strangely—after all these years, it is still hard to read him sometimes. But Turgon thinks he sees a sort of tenderness, mixed with a far more familiar expression—a hunger that often rises in them both. They go so long without showing their true selves, without touching others without restraint, that it’s only natural. Turgon considers protesting that neither of them have won the third throw yet.

“That it is,” Rog says, his deep voice a soft rumble inside his chest, and slides his hand up to Turgon’s head to draw him into a kiss. Winning and losing suddenly seem even less important than usual, as the flickers of lust Turgon staved off earlier return to him full force. Rog’s hair was close-cropped when he came to Gondolin, but now it’s long enough to twist his fingers in, pull—savor the gasp it brings from Rog’s lips. This makes Turgon feel young as well; reminds him of sunlit trysts with Finrod, when they explored together, or the others he dallied with as a boy. He slides his mouth down from Rog’s, nips at his neck, and Rog gives a groan.

“Mattress,” Turgon says, with effort. It’s there for a reason—helps keep the bruises to a minimum. Even Turgon’s clothing can’t cover every inch of his skin, and the workers in Rog’s forge might question a wide pattern of bruises on his back.

They make it there, somehow, and this time Rog pushes Turgon down first. Turgon catches his breath as Rog looks down at him and takes his hand, raising it to his mouth; the chasteness of the kiss against his knuckles is beautiful, framed against the backdrop of their rough tryst. Rog closes his eyes for a moment, holding Turgon’s hand against his lips, as if overwhelmed by a sudden emotion; then he opens his eyes and leans down over him, dark red tendrils of hair spilling over his shoulders, and smiles.

“What now, my king?” he asks, although there is a fondly mocking lilt to his rough voice. Their roles are never so clearly defined, in this room, as king and lord. Turgon sits up slightly, enough to touch the strings binding the front of Rog’s breeches closed.

“I should think that these would be the first matter at hand,” he says, feeling his own voice deepen with lust. “I’d suggest removing them.”

Rog’s hips are edged with scars, as almost every inch of his skin seems to be. Turgon pulls himself into a sitting position and traces one of the lines with his lips, gently, closing his eyes and enjoying the change of pace. They still move quickly, but there’s no need to worry about defense or attack. Rog strips off his breeches and hesitates, eyes asking Turgon where they move next (because the roles might not be clearly defined but even if they were nothing but two men as equals, there is part of Rog that still seems uncertain about this, that prefers Turgon to take the lead). Turgon ran his fingertips lightly down the length of Rog’s cock, drawing a quiet gasp from him. It is shorter than Turgon’s, thicker, and already full and hard to the touch. The struggle always left Rog excited, and Turgon sometimes wonders if it would happen with someone else, or only with Turgon.

That doesn’t really matter, not now. Turgon takes it in his mouth, first—he always enjoys this, always did enjoy it, the way you could unmake someone with nothing but your mouth and fingertips. Rog hisses between his teeth, one hand gathering a fistful of Turgon’s dark hair but not pulling. Turgon teases him for a minute or two, lightly sucking and caressing, enough to make Rog groan and begin to move his hips, not quite thrusting, then raises his head and kisses Rog’s hip. Rog lets out a groan of pure frustration then, and Turgon can’t repress a chuckle.

“Sometimes you’re as slow about fucking as you are about answering unexpected questions in council,” Rog grumbles. Turgon grins a little, hoping that that won’t come to mind the next time he’s in council, then bends his head again; this time he takes the whole of Rog’s cock in his mouth, angling his head so the press against his throat isn’t too great, and Rog’s mutter trails off in a gasp.

“Turgon—”

Turgon sucks, harder than he had before. Rog’s hips jerk, and Turgon taps him lightly on the side; a signal they’d developed before, a giving of permission. Rog gives a relieved moan, and his grip tightens on Turgon’s hair before he begins to thrust. Turgon chokes a little but keeps his place, suckling gently, and lets his hands rest loosely on Rog’s hips, knowing he can stop him if he wishes. There’s a comfort in this—the blindness of it, letting his eyes close, letting his body adjust to the force of Rog’s thrust until it feels natural, keeping his head angled right… feeling the heat and slide of Rog’s cock against his lips, the heavy shape of it in his mouth, filling him and almost overwhelming him, making a few hot tears trickle from the corners of his eyes, saliva from his mouth. His own cock is hard against his leg, but for a few minutes it can wait. For a few minutes there is nothing but this, nothing but him and the man filling his mouth, until Rog shivers and his thrusts slow.

“I’m close,” he warns, his grip on Turgon’s hair loosening, but Turgon wants to finish him like this. He grips Rog’s hips tighter and pulls him in, taking Rog’s cock up to the hilt in his mouth, and Rog gasps and his hand tightens convulsively. Turgon sucks one last time and Rog comes, gasping some foreign curse under his breath, saying “ _Turgon_ —” much louder.

Turgon pulls back a moment afterward and gasps for breath as Rog sinks down to sit on the bed beside him. Turgon gives him a slight grin, delighted at the dazed look on his face. There’s part of him that definitely still finds joy in pleasing a lover.

“I’ll struggle not to think of this next time I see you kneeling in a ceremony,” Rog murmurs, and Turgon laughs a little. They’ve both had plenty of practice by now at hiding bruises and smiles both—all the effects of their time spent together. His laugh turns into a hum of pleasure as Rog turns to him and gently runs a hand up his thigh.   
“I think,” Rog says, and there’s a touch of that strange tenderness in his eyes again, “that you wish to be touched.”

It’s not often he speaks up to direct them, even in such a small matter, and Turgon submits to it with pleased surprise. He had always enjoyed as much closeness to his lovers as he could get, and it seems like Rog has noticed that in their previous meetings; he pushes Turgon’s breeches down far enough to take hold of his cock, and wraps his free arm around his shoulders in a kind of half-hug. Turgon leans against his shoulder, eyes almost closing and lips parting as Rog pulls slowly at his cock, and enjoys the warmth of being held as well as the pleasure of the touch.

It’s such a simple thing, the hand on his cock, but so different from touching himself—although Rog seems to know him almost as well as he does himself. He knows the right pressure to apply, the best way to slide the pad of his thumb along Turgon's most sensitive skin; he knows that Turgon likes to be kissed, often and deep, so that the delight of the kisses mingles with the pleasure of the hand around his cock. Turgon relaxes, growing almost still save for the small motions he can't keep his hips from making. Both of them are almost still, for a moment-their lips almost touching, Rog's arm secure around Turgon's shoulders. Only the slow pull of Rog's fingers up the length of Turgon's shaft and the shudder of Turgon's chest as he drew in breath. Turgon feels heat twisting like a knife of pleasure in his groin and presses his forehead against Rog's, biting his lip; Rog speeds up the pace a little in return, until Turgon feels all the tension that's been building and building, taut as a bowstring and delicate as a spiderweb, shiver into pleasure and flow hotly down through his cock. 

He may have ruined his breeches; right now, he doesn't care. This has been far less strenuous than some of their meetings were in the past, but he still feels the need to catch his breath, ground himself. Silence stretches between them for a few moments, and they do not separate, and Turgon does not find himself wanting to. He feels comforted, as he has not in a very long time.

It is Rog who finally shifts his position; not completely, but enough to let Turgon know that he can move as well. "Time passes too quickly," he says, glancing at the light. Turgon does not think of this often but-he is beautiful, with the dark-red tendrils of his hair clinging to his sweaty skin, his eyes beginning to grow alert again. "And we neglected the third throw, did we not? We'll have to leave it at a draw this time, I suppose."

Turgon let out a shaky laugh, leaning his head back against Rog's shoulder. In a minute-in a minute he will rise, and clean himself and dress. In a minute he will prepare himself to rejoin Gondolin's ebb and flow, resume his proper role in it, re-assume his mask. In a minute.

"I think," he said, "you could be said to have won it, my friend."

 


End file.
